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25 Cents 



a merican 

ACTING 





BIRD'S ISLAND 



A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS 



BY 



MRS. SALLIE F. TOLER 

AUTHOR OF "HANDICAPPED," ETC., ETC. 



^\ce of 
OCT 21 1897 

CHICAGO £p 
THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY 

- 



\ 



CAST OF CHARACTERS. 

Alfred Rayburn— Owner of Bird's Island. 
Dr. Fontaine — His physician. 
Richard Selwyn — His friend. 
Arthur Powers— An Englishman 
Larry Fish— An Irishman. 
Stella Rayburn — A little savage. 
Madam Helga — Bertha Rayburn. 
Mrs. McKillop — From a famous old Scotch family. 
Bobbinette — A Creole servant. 
Fontaine and Selwyn, may be played by one gentleman. 
Plays, two and one-half hours. 



Copyright, 1897, by The Dramatic Publishing Company, Chicago. 

Notice. — The professional acting rights of this play are reserved by 
the^publishers, from whom written permission must be obtained before 
performance. All persons giving unauthorized productions will be 
prosecuted to the full extent of the law. This notice does not apply to 
amateurs, who may perform the play without permission. 

COSTUMES. 

Rayburn, Selwyn and Fontaine wear ordinary suits of to-day. 
Powers' clothes should be after the broadest and latest English 
styles. Larry can wear large checks and flashy necktie. 

Stella's first costume is a yellow satin short dress, trimmed 
in black lace and sequins. She wears a plain travelling-dress 
later in the first act. Second and third acts girlish house- 
dresses of good material. Madam Helga wears a street- 
costume at first entrance, other costumes light house-dresses. 
Wears gray hair and glasses. 

Bobbinette should be dark and her dress should show many 
bright colors. Large hoop earrings should be worn throughout. 
Roberta, costumes, house-dresses well made. Mrs. McKillop, 
severe and prim dresses and manner ot dressing her hair. 



BIRD'S ISLAND. 



ACT I. 

[Scene : Exterior of Rayburn's house at Bird's Island, The 
bay in the distance, with beach and landing for boats, in the 
foreground hammocks are swung, atid tropical plants about. 
A Florida coast. Rayburn cind Dr. Fontaine discovered at 
rise of curtain.'] 

Dr. F. I tell you, Rayburn, it is inevitable, you nv * realize 
it yourself ; you are growing worse every day. 

Ray. It is too true, God help me, I am growing blind. 
Blind. I am blind already ; I can no longer see my daughter's 
face, Fontaine, only an indistinct blur when she stands before 
me. 

Dr. F. How have you kept it from her so long ? She is un- 
usually quick of perception, too. You are determined then to 
send her away from you ? Is this sacrifice necessary ? You 
will miss her, old friend. 

Ray. {Rising and pacing the walk.] I will not sacrifice 
her young life to a selfish wish of mine. I will send Stella to 
New York to my old friend Richard Selwyn, Richard is one of 
the few men whom I have found true ; peculiar, but staunch as 
steel. 

Dr. F. You abandon your plan then, of bringing up your 
daughter away from the conventialisms of society ? The free 
untrameled spirit we had hoped to make of her ? 

Ray. I must ; hard as it is for me to part with her, I can not 
keep the truth from her much longer, and I am not strong 
enough to bear her grief, nor weak enough to blight her youth 
with my wretchedness. 

Dr. F. But she must learn of your blindness some day. 

Ray. Perhaps, after she has become familiar with other 
things and people, but I fancy I shan't live long, Fontaine. 

5 



6 bird's island. 

Dr. F. Nonsense, man, your infirmity makes you morbid. 

Ray. But you say yourself that my heart is weak. 

Dr. F. Stuff. Only a slight functional disorder ; your heart 
is well enough. You'll outlive me yet. When does she go ? 
Have you told her yet ? 

Ray. I have not told her, but she goes to-day. 

Dr. F. To-day ! 

Ray. At four o'clock to-day, Andrew takes her to the main- 
land. Bobbinette goes with her, and the captain of the " Nep- 
tune " meets them. They go by steamer, and Selwyn is to 
meet them in New York. 

Dr. F. To-day, and you have not told her. Rayburn, I had 
not thought you such a coward. 

Ray. Ah, my dear friend you have never had an only 
daughter. 

Dr. F. No, no, thank heaven ; not that only daughters are 
not very well as other people's daughters, but the suddenness 
of it all. 

Ray. Better have one wrench of it than a lingering un- 
happiness for both of us. 

Dr. F. Perhaps you are right. [Rising.'] Well, I must be 
off for the mainland, or my patients will become impatients. I 
wish I could say something to comfort you, Rayburn. It is — 
the whole thing is an entirely uncalled for immolation of your- 
self. Why should you be buried here ? Why not go to New 
York yourself, and live surrounded with the comforts and 
friends which your wealth could bring you. 

Ray. I will never leave this island. 

Dr F. Oh, well, I suppose you know your own affairs best ; 
but I say it is a senseless sacrifice. I suppose now, you have 
no idea where the child's mother is ? 

Ray. No, somewhere in Europe. But I cannot speak of her. 

Dr. F. Is there any possible chance, Rayburn, that you may 
have been mistaken about her guilt ? Forgive me, but you 
know, your unfortunate temper, and your equally unfortunate 
firmness. 

Ray. [Crossing to L.] Why do you probe my soul with 
these questions ? I tell you I saw the woman whom I called my 
wife, with her lover at her feet ; saw him take her in his arms, 
while she clung weeping to his neck. The scene is graven on 
my brain, I think my eyes swim in a sea of blood at the sight. 
This blindness, Fontaine, is red like that. God ! How can 
you torture me with the memory of it ? 

Dr. F. Forgive me, old friend, I will not offend again. You 



bird's island. 7 

are sorely tried, and good-bye, Rayburn, I see Andrew out 
there with the boat. [Ex. at landing.} 

Ray. How much bitterness can a man bear, how much 
sorrow endure, and yet live. My wife, the only woman I ever 
loved, and whom I believed as pure as an angel from heaven, 
false as she was fair ; and now, I must give up my one treasure, 
my little Stella. Blind ! Ah, my God — blind. It is too much. 
Never to see my darling's face again ! Never to watch the 
grace of growth as she advances toward womanhood. Blind ! 
[Ex. Stella's voice is heard outside, laughing and talking. 
Music for Spanish dance. Enter Stella a?id Bobbinette.] 

Stella. Come on, come on ; dance it again, do, Bobbinette. 

Robbi. Oh, oh — but young mistress. I am — too — too — old 
— fat, I'm out ot breath. It is too violent. 

Stella. Why, Bobbinette, what a story. You old ! you are 
only lazy, and not so very fat. Well then watch me and see if 
I do it right. [Dances one or two measures.} 

Bobbi. Excellent, good. But I feel not in the humor for 
dancing to-day. 

Stella. Now you've been dreaming again, Bobbinette. 

Bobbi. Tis true, young mistress, and a bad omen too. 

Stella. Foolish Bobbinette. What is it ? 

Bobbi. [Reading from a dream book taken from her pockety 
"To dream of cabbage boiling in the pot, denotes ill luck, un- 
less the pot be of glass or gold," and this pot was of iron. 

Stella. Silly Bobbinette, if it had been glass it would have 
broken, and if gold, it would have melted and that would be 
worse luck. Come, put that old dream book away. What do 
you think papa will say when he sees me in this dress. Won't 
he be surprised and pleased. I look like a gypsy, don't I ? 

Bobbi. [Aside.} I'm not so sure that the master will be 
pleased. 

Stella. Ah, there he comes now ; just slip in here and' 
watch me surprise him. [Ex. Bobbi. at R. E?iter L. Ray- 
burn ; walkingwith hesitation, as one blind. Stella dances 
softly before him.} 

Stella. Why, papa, you don't even seem to see me. 

Ray. [ With a start.} Ah, Stella, to be sure ; I am very 
absent-minded. Ha, ha, how dull I'm growing. 

Stella. Well ? 

Ray. Hey ? Well ? Oh yes, a kiss, I suppose ; there, you 
little tyrant. 

Stella. Oh, daddykins, you are just too bad ; not a word 
about my pretty dress. 



8 bird's island. 

Ray. My delightful daughter, your old daddykins is an ab- 
sent-minded old bear. To be sure, your dress. Very pretty 
indeed. Let me see, have I seen you wear it before ? The 
fact is, a young lady's dress is something of an enigma to me. 

Stella. Now papa. Of course you never saw it before, for 
I have only just found it in one of the old trunks which Bobbi- 
nette keeps in the west wing. She was airing some things, and 
I found it and these. [Shakes castanets.] 

Ray. Stella, child, what mummery is this ? 

Stella. Why, daddy dear, I believe you are blind. 

Ray. [Aside.] Blind ! Ah, my God ! 

Stella. Don't you see, these go with the costume, the gypsy 
dress, for the dance, papa, that Bobbinette taught me. I 
thought you'd be pleased. 

Ray. [With agitation, feeling her dress.] Take off the 
wretched trappings. Out of my sight with them. These gar- 
ments of that accursed woman. [Aside.] Ah, what have I 
said, the mother of my Stella. 

Stella. Oh, papa dearest, what have I done ? 

Ray. My darling, my little girl, forgive me. 

Stella. You have spoiled all my pleasure, you naughty 
papa ; and I wanted you to be pleased, too. 

Ray. Forgive me, daughter, the sight of this dress [sits with 
Stella on his knee] has stirred some bitter memories. Is this 
— black lace ? 

Stella. Why papa, yes. 

Ray. And these ? [Touching castanets.] And what were 
you saying about a dance ? 

Stella. Oh, do you know I can do it better than Bobbinette 
now, papa, the peasants' dance, you know. Shall I show you ? 
[Dances a few measures, while Rayburn sits with head bent 
in gloomy reflection.] But oh, daddy, you should have been 
there to have seen, and to have heard Andrew laugh at Bobbi- 
nette. Ah, but this is poetry, this is motion ; it makes you glad 
to be alive. But you are sad to-day, papa. You are lonely. 
Why do we never go away from the island. Why do we not 
know people, other people besides Andrew and Bobinette and 
Dr. Fontaine ? 

Ray. Perhaps you may sooner than you think. 

Stella. Oh, I think I should love to know another girl, papa. 
What a lot of things I should have to ask her. They must be 
very happy, the other girls. 

Ray. Happy ? What makes you think so ? 

Stella. Oh, because there are so many of them. Only think 



BIRD S ISLAND. 9 

of having a new person to talk with every day. Of going to 
parties and balls ; Bobbinette has told me all about them. 
And I should have lovers, and sit in a box at the opera, with a 
pink satin cloak on. Oh, oh ! 

Ray. Lovers. Opera. Why you are only a baby yet. 

Stella. But I shall be a woman some day. 

Ray. Ah, too true ; but what if I tell you that you were 
soon to see New York — to go to school, to live there. 

Stella. To school. Oh, you dearest daddykins. Really ? 
When will we go? Will Bobbinette go with us? To New 
York. How delightful. [Dances with joy.'] 

Ray. But, my dear, /am not to be sent to school, /have no 
longing for the opera. Bird's Island is best suited to an old 
man like me. 

Stella. Papa, what do you mean ? 

Ray. Listen, my daughter, and I hope my Stella has too 
much good sense and reason to misunderstand me. Bird's 
Island is a very good place for a child, or for a gloomy old fel- 
low like me, who likes a quiet life better than anything else. 
You have laid the foundation for a healthy, sound physique in 
the free unrestrained lite you have lived here. But Stella, as 
you have just said, you will one day be a woman, and it is not 
fitting that the daughter of Alfred Rayburn should grow up, lack- 
ing accomplishments and polish, without which, native grace 
is at best rough and uncouth. You must be content, Stella, 
to leave me for a while. I have made arrangements to have 
you go to my old friend Richard Selwyn, for a short time at 
least. He has a daughter, and you will be with friends who 
will love you. 

Stella. {Throwing herself on her father s breast.] Oh, 
how can you say so ? 

Ray. For a short time, my love. {Aside.] Heaven forgive 
the deception. 

Stella. I can never leave you. Are "you sending me away 
— because — I — wanted to go ? Oh, papa, I will always be con- 
tent to stay with you. 

Ray. My daughter, my mind has been made up for some 
time ; it is best ; and Stella, you go to-day. 

Stella. To-day, papa, how can you be so cruel. 

Ray. Do you not think it hard for me ? Come, darling, 
don't make it any worse for us. Bobbinette knows, she is to 
go with you, so you will not be entirely with strangers. There, 
dry your tears, and let us go out on the beach and talk it over. 
Let us make this day as happy as we can. Ex. L. u. E. Stella 



IO BIRD S ISLAND. 

clinging to her father. Enter Bobbinette with bandboxes 
and packages. .] 

Bobbi. There, these are of the newest. I bade Andrew- 
fetch me, from the town, two most suitable, and of the newest 
fashion ; one for the child, and one for me. One of dignity. 
Holy saints, but it is a long time since we had aught to do with 
fashions. Ah, but it is unchristian to live away from the world. 
I shall enjoy a little society myself. This Andrew, pouf, he is a 
stick, a clod ; he sees nothing. I shall see others who will have 
eyes, perhaps, for I dreamed a dream that betokens lovers also. 
[Reads from dream book.] " To dream of counting eggs, is a 
sign ol lovers by the score." Ha, ha, and I was counting 
baskets and baskets of them. [Laughs again, j business with 
the boxes. ,] Two bonnets of a shape the most fashionable, I 
told Andrew. Holy saints, I wonder which is for me, and 
which is for the child. 'Tis a shame to be so behind the style. 
[Tries on first one then the other, looki?tg in a hand glass for 
the effect.'] They are both strange. Surely this one suits my 
complexion best, but 'tis evident, a little gay. Perhaps it is 
this ; yes, most surely it is this ; I would not for any thing that 
we go to the house of Monsieur Selwyn with old fashions. No, 
we will hold our heads proud. Let it not be said that Bobbi- 
nette has no taste. There will be a butler, or some one, he, he. 
If he should think me striking — distingue ? Who could blame 
me if I make conquests ? Ah, I wish Andrew could be there 
to see. [Ex. with affected airs, L. i E. Enter Stella and Ray- 
burn, L. U. E.] 

Stella. How lovely and blue the water is, daddy dear. Now 
that the time has really come, I feel as if it were wrong for me 
to leave you. You have only me. If my mother had lived — 
why, what is it, dear ? 

Ray. Nothing, nothing, child ; don't mind me. 

Stella. Of course, I was thoughtless to speak so abruptly of 
my dear mother. How you must have loved her ; I know you 
must, because you can never bear to speak of her ! but 1 wish 
you would, just this once. Was I a very little baby when she 
died? 

Ray. Yes, very little. 

Stella. Poor, poor mamma ; and poor papa, to lose her. I 
wonder what it is like to have a mother ? Is Roberta Selwyn's 
mother living, papa ? 

Ray. No, Mrs. Selwyn has been dead for several years. 
His sister-in-law is mistress of his house. 

Stella. I feel so sad ; I think I am too young, daddy dear, 



bird's ISLAND. II 

to have such an ache here. [Lays her hand on her heart.} 
As you say, it is only for a little while. 

Ray. My precious daughter. Would to heaven I could save 
you every heart ache. But this separation is for your own sake. 
Come love, cheer up ; look out over our island and let us re- 
member our last day, for many days. 

Stella. Oh, my father. I will be more courageons. It is 
only for a little while, isn't it ? Our lovely island, and our 
dear bay, how I love them, now that I am to leave them. How 
clear the water looks, papa. 

Ray. With not a sail in sight. 

Stella. Why yes, there are two. 

Ray. Yes, yes, two, of course. 

Stella. And on this side, see how the blue shows through 
the delicate branches of the smoke trees. 

Ray. Like glimpses of your blue eyes, my little girl. 

Stella. [Suddenly as the boat with Andrew comes in view.} 
Oh, the hateful sight. 

Ray. What ? 

Stella. There, that. 

Ray. But what ? 

Stella. Oh, papa, are you blind ? Don't you see it is 
Andrew with the boat that is to take me away irom you. [Enter 
Bobbinette, with bags, boxes, wraps, etc.} 

Bobbi. Now, master, don't let the child be forgetful of her 
new things. [As Ray and Stella embraced] Shou ts to Andrew.] 
Andrew, are the boxes all safe? Is the boat dry, Andrew? 
Come child. Ah master, have no fear, I will watch her as the 
apple of your eye. Here Andrew, put these away safely. 
[Hands him parcels^ Is the boat dry do you say ? I would 
not for anything soil our new apparel. Fear not master, the 
child is safe with me. Bobbinette knows what is expected of 
her, be careful of that box, Andrew. 

Ray. Good-bye, darling, I will write you every day. [Stella 
starts toward the boat, runs back and embraces her father 
again, is at last lifted by Rayburn into Bobbinette's arms. 
The boat slowly moves out of sight. Tableau. Stella holding 
her hands toward her father. Rayburn reaches out his in 
answer, as the boat ?noves slowly off, Bobbinette waving her 
handkerchief. Then Rayburn stands dejected with head bent 
on his breast, with slow curtain. Music should accompany 
the latter part of this scene.] 



12 BIRD S ISLAND. 



ACT II. 



[Scene : — Home of Richard Selwyn in New York. A hand- 
somely furnished room. Selwyn and Mrs. McKillop dis- 
covered.'] 

Sel. My dear Mrs. McKillop, I beg you not to trouble me 
with these trifles. Suppose the child is a little mischievous elf, 
she is only a child. For heaven's sake remember my digestion. 

Mrs. McK- I should find it sair work to forget it, Richard 
Selwyn, with your constant complainin'. Mon, mon, why can't 
ye brace up a bit ? Ah, if I had ye up to Cairnavorgilly, the 
home of my ancestors, they'd teach ye to dance strathspeys and 
reels, and Gillie Callum, and toss the caber, and throw the 
hammer ; and eat haggis and drink whiskey and Athol brose, 
and 

Sel. Great heaven, spare me the history of your ancestry 
and their rude accomplishments. 

Mrs. McK. Rude ? Rude ? Be ashamed to ye, Richard 
Selwyn. I'd have ye to know that I come from the Camerons 
of Aberlona. If ye ever knew anything, ye must know of York 
of M'Ouanall, who received thirty seven wounds, all mortal, at 
the battle of Inverlochy. It was a clan of unusual antiquity 
and power, and near cousin to the McFecknies of Gregarach. 

Sel. Oh, this is worse than the rage about Stella. I tell you 
I don't care a straw about your Scotch genealogy. Go talk to 
Larry, he is Irish, and near enough of kin to be sympathetic. 

Mrs. McK. Larry, gracious powers. Larry a neighbor and 
kinsman. An Irish bogtrotter. Ye insult the blood of all the 
M'Ouanalls, Richard Selwyn, when ye insult me. It's a bad 
sign, too, to be so quick to anger. A bad temper is a sad curse. 
The little savage that ye have been made guardian of is as 
like ye as your own. 

Sel. Come, you have taken a dislike to the child because 
she plays pranks on you, isn't that the sum of her offences. 

Mrs. McK. I hope I'm a Christian, and I take no dislike to 
any one. But this limb, this heathen, brought up without even 
a knowledge of the catechism, is a sore trial. 

Sel. But what does she do ? 

Mrs. McK, Do ? There isn't a mischief under the sun she 



Bird's island. 13 

doesn't plan ; she hides my glasses — not that I wear them for 
age, I'm near-sighted. She makes sport of my Gaelic songs ; 
she makes me a laughin' stock. Oh, she's a limb. 

Sel. You must try and make the best of her. My state of 
health forbids excitement, as I told you more than once. I 
esteem you, Mrs. McKillop, you keep my house admirably, but 
I must be spared these little worries, and I insist — no more 
biographies. [Ex, L.] 

Mrs. McK. Ah, there is the makins of a man there. If I 
but had him at Cairnavorgilly. [Sighs.] But he's deeficult, 
he's deeficult. How my sister managed to catch him passes 
me. [Noise outside.] Lord save us, here's that little savage 
again. [Enter Stella dragging Larry, entatigled in a ham- 
mock.] 

Stella. I've caught a fish, I've caught a fish. Oh, Mrs. 
McKillop see him flounder. [Romping with L.] 

Larry. Oh, for the love of heaven, miss, don't make a holy 
show of me, Let me go now, that's a dear. 

Stella. A talking fish, what a find. See him flop. 

Mrs. McK. Ye disgraceful little heathen, ye limb of the 
auld boy. 

Larry. Oh, oh, ye mischief. There, I'm out. Ye monkey, 
ye are as full of tricks as a sausage is full of mate. No ye don't. 
[Dodging her, runs off. Stella starts after him.] 

Mrs. McK. Will ye stop now ye little wild thing ? Don't 
ye know better than to disgrace a dacint family rompin' with the 
sarvints ? 

Stella. Dear Mrs. McKillop, you called me a little savage 
yourself, I'm only acting up to my character. 

Mrs. McK. Ye needn't remain a savage, ye should take on 
the ways of ceevilized people, when ye have the advantage of 
associatin' with me. „ 

Stella. Indeed; but " it is deeficult, its deeficult." But do 
you know Mrs. McKillop I have " done it " again ? 

Mrs. McK. Maircy sakes, what have ye done ? 

Stella. Oh, only one of the very many things I should not 
do. There ought to be a printed book of the things one ought 
not to do. It would be a large one. 

Mrs. McK. Whatever do you mean, and what have ye done ? 

Stella. Well you know Roberta took me to church with her, 
I was never in a church before Mrs. McKillop. 

Mrs. McK. Never ? Heaven presairve us. 

Stella. No, there were none on Bird's Island you know. I 
never supposed it would be wrong to sing at the church door. 



14 BIRD S ISLAND. 

Mrs. McK. Gude save us. What sang ye ? 

Stella. I only hummed a foolish little thing that I've heard; 
Larry sing. [Sings.] Tarra-ra boom-de-ay. 

Mrs. McK. Oh, ye little sauvage. 

Stella. That wasn't all of my iniquity. I spoke out loud in 
church while we were waiting. 

Mrs. McK. Maircy on us, what said ye ? 

Stella. Why, nothing, it was really such a little thing to 
make a fuss about. You see there was a picture of some sheep 
and a shepherd. 

Mrs. McK. Yes, yes. 

Stella. And I said suddenly, oh, Roberta, I think sheep look 
like people, don't you ? Then she gripped me so tight by the 
arm, that I think it is bruised. 

Mrs. McK. And no wonder, 

Stella. But how stupid, to sit like that and never say a word. 
The preacher talked enough, when he got a chance. ■ 

Mrs. McK. Ye are hopeless I am afraid. 

Stella. Yes, I am afraid so. But do forgive me Mrs. 
McGinty, this time. 

Mrs. McK. McKillop, McKillop, ye daft bairn. 

Stella. {Affectionately disarranging Mrs. McK's. attire ; 
business.'] Dear Mrs. McKillop, do forgive me. 

Mrs. McK. I doubt ye, I doubt ye. 

Stella. Oh, no, you don't, you are a dear. And Mrs. 
McGinty — I mean McKillop — won't you please sing me one of 
your lovely Scotch songs ? 

Mrs. McK. For ye to make sport of? Not a bit of it. 

Stella. Make sport of them, never. I want to learn some 
of them myself. 

Mrs. McK. Eh ? Maybe ye are showing signs of ceeviliza- 
tion, after all. I will then. 

Stella. Wait a minute till I get the others to listen. {Exit, 
retur?iing immediately, pushing Selwyn and Roberta in front 
of her.] 

Mrs. McK. Ah, the dear child, she doesn't want to be self- 
ish and enjoy all the pleasure herself. 

Sel. There, there, my dear, excuse me this time ; I've heard 
Mrs. McKillop sing, and have no desire to repeat the experiment. 

Stella. Yes, yes, do come in, and you, Roberta, sit there. 
Come in, Larry, I want you all. Now mind, everybody, no 
conversation to disturb the musician. Commence now, dear 
Mrs. McGinty— McKillop. 

Mrs. McK. Ladies and gintlemen, ahem ; really these at- 



BIRD S ISLAND. 1 5 

tentions flatter me. It's a good sign when ye manifest an in- 
terest in the poetry of auld Scotland and her songs. Ah, but 
I seem to see the clash of arms, the waving of banners, and the 
wailing of bag-pipes, when the mighty 

Stella. Yes, Yes, but the song, the song. [A character- 
istic old song is sung, in a high-pitched old-fashioned tone 
during which they all leave one by one, except Stella.] 

Stella. Did he die ? 

Mrs. McK. Did who die ? 

Stella. The gentleman in the song. 

Mrs. McK. There was nothing about death or a gentleman 
in the song. It was quite a funny little song of love, about a 
cow and a shepherd ; full of fun and merriment. 

Stella. But surely someone groaned in the chorus ! 

Mrs. McK. Nothing of the kind ; that was probably an ex- 
clamation of joyful surprise. 

Stella. What an expressive language. 

Mrs. McK Eh ? I doubt ye, I doubt ye. Eh, what ? 
[To Larry, who enters and brings a card.] Madame Helga. 
Ah, the child's governess and teacher. Show her in, Larry, 
and call Mr. Selwyn. Come child, with me, while the other 
people talk, and settle about ye. [Ex. L. with Stella. Enter 
Selwyn and Madame Helga.] 

Sel. I am glad to see you, Madam Helga. I was about to 
go out for my morning walk — allow me to remove my wraps. 
These east winds play the mischief with me. I'm in very deli- 
cate health, very. What, with the east wind and the doctors, 
it's a wonder I'm alive. I have Dr. Smith for my chest, and he 
tells me my left lung is touched, and I must shield myself from 
the fog, morning fog especially. I have Dr. Jones for my liver, 
and he tells me I must walk constantly in the fresh air, morning 
air especially. So between them, I traverse the streets like a 
mummy. Thank heaven for a good constitution, my dear 
madam, for you see in me, a wreck — a wreck. [Having re- 
moved wraps, sinks into a chair.] 

Madame Helga. I— am truly sorry, sir. 

Sel. Oh, it's nothing new. People who see me every day, 
don't notice how ill I am. I'm so harrassed by conflicting 
opinions of doctors, that to have a fresh opinion like yours 
would be of value. Nowj seriously, meeting me without preju- 
duce, would you say my liver was gone or not ? 

Mme. Hel. [Aside.] What an extraordinary man. [To Sel.] 
Really sir, I am but little accustomed to illness of any kind ; 
but — - 



16 bird's island. 

Sel. Madam, I ask you solemnly not to hesitate. 

Mme. Hel. I do not think you look really ill. 

Sel. [ With a sigh.] Ah, I see how it is ; you are like all 
the rest, too kind to tell me what you see plainly in my face. 
Death, madam, death. 

Mme. Hel. Oh, Mr. Selwyn, you frighten me. Is it so bad as 
that? 

Sel. Worse, much worse ; and I am a martyr to systems, 
erroneous systems past and present. My wretched digestion I 
inherit from men whose power were exhausted by our national 
kitchen. My present wretched condition has been achieved by 
the drugs in our national pharmacopia. I tell you, madam, a 
nation so behindhand in the first essential of civilization, the 
art of good cooking, is in the beginning of decay. 

Mme. Hel. [Aside.] The man is surely deranged. May I 
ask, Mr. Selwyn, after my little charge ? 

Sel. I beg your pardon for occupying your time, but you 
seemed so sympathetic. The little girl — yes, you will find her 
very bright, as girls go. Her father is a very peculiar man, 
secluding himself on account of family troubles, and bringing up 
his daughter on an island, you know. He changes his mind, 
however, and sends her to me, an old friend, to be educated. 
I advertise, you answer, and here you are. 

Mme. Hel. Is your ward's mother dead ? 

Sel. Ah, there is the sad part of my friend's story, She is 
not dead, but the child must remain in ignorance of this. She 
was an unworthy woman and broke my friend's heart. She 
made of the most genial man that ever lived, a gloomy misan- 
thrope. But here are some other members of my family. 
[Enter Roberta, Stella, and Mrs. McK.] My daughter 
Roberta, my sister-in-law, Mrs. McKillop, and my ward, your 
pupil Stella. 

Mme. Hel. Stella, I knew a little Stella once — a baby girl. 
What is your other name, dear. 

Stella. Rayburn, madam. 

Mme. Hel. Oh, my God. [Starts.] 

Mrs. McK. Why, whatever ails the woman ? Here, st£ 
back, loosen her neck, Roberta ; there, she's comin" out of 
I hope, ma'am, ye're not weakly ? Get away with ye, Seh 
ye are a puir body at best. D'ye feel better, now ? 

Mme. Hel. Thank you, no. It is nothing, I have been — not 
well. 

Mrs. McK. Ye are not subject to such attacks ? 

Mme. Hel. Oh, indeed, no. 




bird's island. 17 

< Mrs. McK. It's well ye are not. Selwyn has a monopoly on 
'he invalid business himself. My, but ye are a young woman, 
after all. How came ye with the white hair ? 

Mme. Hel. I am rarely ill ; I will be better soon. 

Mrs. McK. Well, ye don't look strong and hearty. Perhaps 
if ye are left a bit by yourself, it will do ye good. Get out, now, 
the lot of ye, and let the woman be quiet, Come, Stella. 

Mme. Hel. Pray let the little girl remain, will you not ? 

Mrs. Mc.K. I'm afraid — varra weel then. Now mind, [To 
Stella] no pranks. [Ex.] 

Mme. Hel. My dear, you are not afraid of me, are you ? 

Stella. Oh, no, only very sorry that you are ill. 

Mme. Hel. What precious sympathy ; and your name is Stella 
Rayburn ? What is your father's name, dear child ? 

Stella. Papa's name is Alfred. 

Mme. Hel. Ah, and your mother, little one ? 

Stella. My dear mother is dead, madam. 

Mme. Hel. Dead ! But of course you remember her death, 
perhaps ? 

Stella. Oh, no ; I do not remember her, and my father can 
never bear to speak of her. He must have loved her very 
dearly, for it seems to hurt him so. My mother was very 
beautiful. 

Mme. Hel. But how do you know ? 

Stella. I wear a locket with her picture. Look. [Shows 
a locket from a chain at her neck.] 

Mme. Hel. [Aside ■.] My very self. [To Stella. And you 
wear this always ? 

Stella. Yes, always ; I love to think that my beautiful 
mother is near me. Sometimes on the island, when the storm 
is loud, and I am afraid, I put my hand on my locket, and feel 
that I am not alone, and then I am not afraid any more. 

Mme. Hel. Dearest child ! 

Stella. Bobbinette gave it to me a year ago, saying I was 
old enough to have it now, and that I must always wear it in- 
side my dress, and not grieve papa by the sight of it. 

Mme. Hel. Ah ! Bobbinette was ever kind — that is — I mean 
is she quite well ? 

Stella. Yes, Bobbinette is never ill. She is here with me. 

Mme. Hel. Here. [Aside.] Good heaven, she may recognize 
me. 

Stella. I could never stay here without her. None of them 
love me, they all think I am strange and wild and ignorant. 
That funny Scotch woman calls me a little savage. 
3 



1 8 bird's island. 



Mme. Hel. Unkind. 

Stella. I dare say she doesn't mean to be unkind, and ]j 
play all sorts of pranks on her. And I am ignorant ; but yoq 
shall teach me to be 

Mme. Hel. More conventional, perhaps ; heaven forbid that 
you should be less natural. And you think we shall be good 
friends ? 

Stella. I shall love you dearly if you will let me. 

Mme. Hel. Let you. I am hungry for love, I have known 
so little. 

Stella. Then I mustn't begin by tiring you. I'll run away 
now. When do we commence our lessons ? 

Mme. Hel. Immediately. 

Stella. I am so glad. I'll come again and show you the 
school room. Now just lie still and get well. [Kisses her 
lightly on forehead, and ex.] 

Mme. Hel. {Rising and pacing the floor .~\ Oh, kind and gra- 
cious heaven, thou hast led me to this place. To see my child 
once again, my little baby girl, my Stella. I will teach her to 
love me. Ay, she loves me already. Then no one, not even ' 
her father, shall take her from me. But I must be on my guard. . 
[Looks in a mirror.'] Ah, no one can recognize me with this 
grey hair ; my face is pale too, white, washed out with years of I 
weeping. But my child, I will have her again. I was weak J 
and afraid in the old days, afraid of his terrible rage. But now, | 
that I have seen her, have held her in my arms again, I will be 
strong, and no man shall take her from me. [Ex. Enter 
Powers and Roberta.] 

Rob. I tell you we have not an idea in common. The old 
simile of the clinging vine, and the sturdy oak, is a back num- 
ber. The American woman needs no oak, she looks for better 
things. 

Pow. Er — yes ? Er— what, does she look for ? 

Rob. For emancipation from the old bondage, social, poli- 
tical and civil. 

Pow. Er — don't you think such violent change of base would 
result in social chaos ? 

Rob. [Grandly.] Absolute justice has no need to concern 
itself with consequences. 

Pow. You Americans are so — so intense. You take life so , 
seriously. 

Rob. I wish you would take me seriously now and then. 

Pow. A — you know that I am ready to take you at any time, 
[Roberta turns her back to him and looks out the window.] I 



bird's island. 19 

wish you would tell me — seriously, what you object to in my 
manner ? 

Rob. Oh you know well enough that you look with a sort of 
disdainful amusement on all the things that are of interest to 
me. You make fun of me when I express my sympathy with 
the aspirations of advanced womanhood. Oh yes you do, you 
know you do, you needn't deny it. Take only one thing for ex- 
ample ; you have no sympathy, absolutely none, in one of the 
greatest efforts of the day ; the effort of woman to throw off the 
shackles of conventional dress, when you know, you must know 
the disability it imposes. 

Pow. Now really — er — you know the intricacies of feminine 
dress are an unspeakable mystery to me. The general effect is 
good. There are occult influences you know in a woman's 
dress which combine to give her the mysterious charm. 

Rob. Oh, you talk like — a man. I wish you had to serve an 
apprenticeship, bound and hindered and hammered by these 
same " occult influences." How would you like to encase your 
waist in an unyielding armor ? To repress and restrict your 
lungs to half their capacity ? 

Pow. Is it so bad as that ? It must be then that an anatomical 
difference demands — er — that the female waist — receive more 
pressure than the male. 

Rob. Oh you are too absurd, how can you be so frivolous 
about serious things ? 

Pow. I try to be — but you take up one so suddenly. 

Rob. Oh, do I ? Well you'll find I won't take you up so 
quickly as you seem to imagine. You Englishmen think all you 
have to do is to drop the handkerchief, and we American girls 
are ready to pick it up. 1 tell you I wouldn't marry you or any 
man, so there ! [Ex. and enter from the other side Selwyn.] 

Pow. How is a fellow to know ? I haven't dropped any 
handkerchief. 

Sel. Well, Powers, how goes your wooing with my daughter ? 
I don't see why the deuce you young people can't get over this 
unholy habit of seeking to promote the general happiness of 
mankind by matrimony. 

POW. It is discouraging. 

Sel. Then why do'nt you give it up ? 

Pow. But my dear sir, I'm in love with her. 

Sel. Pooh. Tut. Young man, beware of all emotions, they 
are bad for the spleen. Love is an emotion. My daughter is 
a whimsical little wretch. 

Pow. My Roberta, a wretch ? She's an angel ; her voice 



20 bird's island. 

rJ? C L My T dear fell , ow : don>t r oar like a bull of Bashan at m 

0?™~ ° V ^ ^u Im n0t deaf ' and 1 a ™ in delicate hea^ 
Of course my daughter is all well enough, but I say she i 
whimsical little wretch-don't contradict me the doctor has \ 

sAtZlT- , bdng COntradicted - I say she is whimsci 
bhe has dipped into every new ism under the sun. First i 
Theosophy; then ethics; then religion, why she changes b 

Lorf ? "f t l! he SeaS ,° n ' JUSt n ° W She is a so - alist and reform. 
Lord, Lord, the cranks and turns of the human mind. A f< 
years ago socialism was banned ; now polite society flirts wi 
it ; even the pulpit extends it the hand ol fellowship 
TOW. All these are mere interests of the time 

SK Y°v. d °' nt really want m y daughter, my word for 
you d fight like cats and dogs. y 

Pow. [Stitfly.] I think you said you had no objection to n 
marrying— Miss Roberta ? jecuon to n 

Sel. Bless you, none in the world, if she will have you Bi 
you would better take the advice of one who has tried matr 
mony. Women are mostly cats. [Ex ] 

f a the W " S^ What ! blas P hem y- Bu * he's my Roberta 

THiH- * i i ? an fJ 1 ? 61 ' a Stan l SU PP° se Fm P rett y f ar gone 
I did nt think I could be so bad as this. [Looks in a mirror 1 

do nt seem the sort of fellow to tame a shrew, certainly I'i 
rather timid and a trifle slow. I never could take a girl b 
storm. ^ Perhaps a long siege would do. 

Bobbi. [Enter reading aloud from a drea7n book] « T 
dream of cutting ones nails of a Friday, without thinking of 
raw cabbage, is a very good omen. It signifies wealth, posi 
tionand a lover." Eh. This is Miss Roberta's lover. Is h 
admiring himself, I wonder ? Par-don, but I expected to se. 
Mr. Larry. r 

Pow. Mr. Larry, who is he ? 

Bobbi. Oh but surely, he is the young man who makes 
open the door. 

S°Sl. Ah *' 1 See ; yes_er and this Larr y» is h e attentive. 
Bobbi. At-ten-tif ? 

Pow. Is he courting ? 

Bobbi. I think so. 

Pow. You're not sure ? Do'nt you know when a man is in 
earnest. 

Bobbi. But surely ; yet this Larry is something slow. 

Pow. How, I sympathize with him ; I'm something slow 
myself. Tell me my dear-a-girl, I've a special reason for know- 
ing ; how does a woman best like to be made love to ? 



bird's ISLAND. 21 

Bobbie. Do'nt you know ? 

Pow. No ; I'm slow, like this Larry ; but you ought to have 
had lots of experiences. 

Bobbi. Oh, yes. 

Pow. Then tell me, do that's a good girl. 

Bobbi. Well then-te-he ; a girl likes her lover not too shy. 

POW. Aha. Not too shy. 

Bobbi. Not like a wooden man about the arms. 

Pow. Not afraid to put his arm about her like this. 

Bobbi. Yet not too bold. 

Pow. Oh, certainly not. 

Bobbi, Just bold enough ; even a chaste kiss is sometimes 
permitted. 

Pow. Ha, ha ; something like this, eh ? [Kisses her.] 

Bobbi. And if her head recline on his shoulder. [Bus.] 

Pow. ' Yes, yes ; like this. Why you are an excellent teacher. 
Another kiss, Oh Lord ! [Sees Larry, who has entered,] Ha, ha. 

Larry. Ha, ha. 

Bobbi. Ha, ha. 

Larry. [Savagely.] Ha, ha. 

Pow. The fact is, Larry, she was teaching me 

Larry. So I see ; an' its an apt scholar ye are. 

Pow. I hope so. In fact I should like to get on as fast as 
possible for I'm a novice myself. 

Larry. Ye do well for a beginner sor. 

Pow. Ha, yes ; I hope you do'nt mind. It was a sort of 
rehearsal you know. I'm much obliged to you ; and to you Bob- 
binette, and I think I shall get on pretty well now. [Ex. 
Larry at opposite side of stage. 

Larry. I am sure he is welcome wid all me heart to his r- 
rehear-rsals. 

Bobbi. [Aside.] He's jealous, and there's nothing like 
jealousy' for bringing a man to his mind. I dream of anger 
last night, that's a sign of love. 

Larry. But ye ought to time your r-r-ehearsals so that yell 
not be interrupted, so ye ought, Mistress Bobbinette. 

Bobbi. Oh, Mr. Larry, you are not angry ? 
Larry. Certainly not. 
Bobbi. With Mr. Powers too. 

Larry. I'm thinkin' Miss Bobby that ye are playing me for 
a sucker. 

Bobbi I know not that word, sucker. 

Larry. Oh it's mighty innocent ye are ; have'nt ye been 
after recavin my attintions iver since ye came ? 



bird's island. 



ma^sY™ a T b h r t 5 W e hy a„ d d° b,^/ 6 r Tf "f R °-ta's you 
Bobbi. N o do'nt Vo ' It was" all £ ^ 1" *"""•] 

«.? $£%■« sr,sr, jffijj ■:■ j°e ■ ' T ~™ 

of n,y life to „],«,„„,,, n, HJ" • » '« Km th, tro.N 



to:£ w ^ ouragethem? 



onfofth^and^TCmon^ W ° Uld ' nt haVe ""7 ever 
Mrs 0V Mc^op. See I i o b w l ; t cC fi de e „ r tia t nv in I f n me H ab0Ut ^ lo H 

Ah^fheiSte^tS' d ° eS ^ — ea„ me 

wi ]ir S e sa-^K^ ^^ Mrs - McKilfop ' ] 

Jars. SULcK. Eh ? Her ? Who ? 

C 7<T 35* df- ,^rtp^ ~ ^ i 

father did not ill you of hit t hrTa tened" ft ?""* ? Y °^ 
could not bear to make you ! k blindness, because he 
never have been wil,ing toTave° h"^' ** """ ^ would 
Sel He b/i X T UM DOt ' ^ darI W Papa. 



bird's island. 23 

aim that there is every hope if he will submit to an operation. 
>o your father has conquered his aversion to meeting people, 
md is coming to New York for treatment. 

Stella. He ought to have told me. Oh, my poor papa, to 
:hink I have been so careless and happy, and my dear, dearest 
4addy blind. Oh, I can't bear it. 

Sel. There, there, child, don't cry ; there is nothing worse 
for the liver than grief. Besides, your papa is going to get well 
now. [Looks at letter.} Why bless my soul, he may be here 
it any moment. Dear me, I hope this excitement will not be 
the end of me. [Enter Larry ate. with Rayburn.] 

Larry. This way, sor, let me help ye, careful now, and may 
the saints restore ye. Ah, here is the masther, and the little 
leddy. 

Stella. My father, my own daddykins. 

Ray. My daughter, my little Stella. 

Stella. Why did you send me away from you, my darling 
papa, and you were blind ? 

Ray. Do not speak of that now, we are together again, and 
I am promised a hope of cure. 

Sel. Rayburn, dear old fellow, haven't you a word for me ? 

Ray. Selwyn. I never thought to meet you again, but fate 
has ordered it otherwise. I could not keep my vow of seclu- 
sion, when there was a hope of seeing my child again. [Kisses 
her'-] 

Sel. I deplore your misfortune, but I am glad it has broken 
your resolve, for believe me, Alfred, the sacrifice was not 
demanded. 

Ray. Perhaps not. However, that is past, and hope once 
more illumines my darkness. But how are you ? And how 
much good it does me to hold your hand again, dear Richard. 

Sel. [Remembering his fancied illness.} I am a wretched 
hulk, a mere shadow of my former self, Bless my soul, I had 
forgotten it for a few moments in the pleasure of seeing you 
again. But I'm in a bad fix, Rayburn, a bad fix. [Enter 
Madam Helga r."1 ' 

Mme. Hel. I beg pardon, I was looking for Miss Stella. I 
was not aware, I will not intrude. Ah-h-h. 

Ray. Who spoke ? What, I must be mad. Who spoke, 
Selwyn ? 

Stella. Come in, dear Madam Helga. Here is my father. 

Sel. Yes, come in. This is your little pupil's father. Ray- 
burn, this is Madam Helga, who has won all our hearts, your 
daughter's first of all. 




24 bird's island. 

Ray. Madam, I am happy to meet you ; you see, I am 
blind. 

Mme. Hel. [Aside.] Blind ? Heaven send me courage. 
Sir, [to Ray,] I am sorry for your misfortune. 

Ray. Let me take your hand, madam ; you know we blind, 
read by touch, both books and people. Your voice moves me 
strangely, I have never met you, and yet — and yet — you are 
weeping, Madam Helga ? 

Mme. Hel. It is for pity, sir. 

Ray. Such sympathy is very sweet, I am sure you must be 
a good woman, and it is small wonder my daughter loves you. 
Your voice has a tone of sadness, and you are a young woman 
are you not ? . 

Mme. Hel. My hair is quite grey. | 

Stella. But I don't believe you are old, are you, dear^ 
madam. 

Mme. Hel. From bitter sorrow, yes. 

Ray. That voice ! My long seclusion has made me| 
fanciful. 

Stella. Oh, I am so sorry. Papa, may not Madam Helga/ 
belong to us now, and shall not we make her happy again?" 
When you are cured, and we are all happy once more ? \ 

Ray. We will do what we can, my darling. Perhaps iri 
lighting the gloom for others, my own way may be brightened] 
Let us hope, madam, that the future holds enough joy, to can-^ 
eel the sorrow you have known. 

Mme. Hel. Amen. And you, sir ? j 

Stella. Yes, and you, dearest daddykins, you shall see once/ 
more, and we'll never be sad again. j 

Ray. So be it. If heaven shall restore my sight, dear child,] 
I will forget all the bitterness of my life, and remember only Ij 
have you. 

Mme. Hel. Forget the bitterness ? 

Ray. [ With a start.] The bitterness ? Yes, I will forget. 

CURTAIN. 



bird's island. 25 



ACT III. 

[Scene -.—Same as Act II. Bobbinette and Larry enter.} 

Bobbi I like not the new teacher, Mr. Larry. There is 
.omething— I know not what. But how she looks at my master, 
—and she with the gray hair,— the shame of it ? 

Larry But Bobby, me darlin', ye don't suppose the heart 
rrows gray too ? Now, I'm no spring chicken, and ye know ye 
lin't so young yerself, as ye used to be 

Bobbi Comparisons are always unpleasant. I like not that 
any strange woman should look with love at my master. And 
she cannot look at me. She avoids me. 

Larry. Why what's to hinder his marry'n again ? bure its 
a fine man he is, barrin' his blindness. 

Bobbi \Mysteriously.[ Trouble will come of it. You do 
not know everything, Master Larry . Look here. [Shows dream 
book 1 I dreamed of a yellow cat last night. " To dream ot a 
yellow cat, is a great misfortune, a token of the greatest misfor- 
tune to your friends." 

Larry. Ah, bother with yer dhrame book ; ye meant some- 
thing else, now ye know ye did, 

Bobbi. Never mind, I keep my master's secrets. 
Larry. A woman kape a sacret, is it. 

Bobbi. You shall see that I can. I will pray the saints tor 
his safe delivery. . 

Larry. Arrah, now thin, I've heard of prayin for strange 
things there are the faith cure paple, who pray the skins ott 
ther pe'taties, and cure their childer's colic wid prayin, instead 
of peppermint. But I niver heard of prayin' to cure a man of 
matrimonial intintions, an' I don't belave ye can do it, Bobby 
darlin' if it once strikes in. [Enter at C. Roberta and Powers. J 
Larrv. [Drawing Bobbinette to one side.] Arrah here 
come two that need prayin' for, for a quarer sparkin I niver 
saw. Would ye observe thim now ? 

Rob I wonder if anything could shake your composure and 

calm self esteem. Could any thing shock you ? Or is that too 

violent an emotion for you ? I've a notion to try at all events, 

for anything would be better than the evenness of your temper. 

Pow. Do you want me to storm and swear at you. 




26 bird's island. 

"Rob. It would be a variety, Listen. Beginning with to- 
morrow, I am going to adopt the reform dress ; there, what do 
you say to that ? 

Pow. I — a — say that you are sure to grace any dress you 
may put on, 

Rob. Nonsense, you only think of compliments. Do you 
know what it is ? 

Pow. I'm not sure ; is it — are they — bloomers ? 

Rob. It is a modification of that idea. 

Larry. Holy saints, its the breeches she manes. Let's be 
off, Miss Bobby, these young people talk about quare things.: 
[Ex.] 

Pow. Yes ? I have seen it — er — them. But to use your 
quaint southern vernacular, I thought it was — they were a 
" plum sight." 

Rob. That is because your taste is perverted. Why should 
a woman be a slave to costume ? 

Pow. Oh, really, I don't know, don't you know. But you 
see some of the women who wore this costume, were not — they 
were far from sylphlike ; to put it more plainly, they were quite 
the reverse. 

Rob. Well, what of that ? All the more honor to their 
courage. 

Pow. Yes, I admit it was an act of the highest heroism for a 
woman of 200 pounds to display her — her rotundity — if you 
please, in that dress. I am afraid the ovations she received 
were not calculated to make it a popular fashion. 

Rob. Ovations ? 

Pow. The people laughed, you know ; and the small boys, — 
well you know what the small boy is. 

Rob. [Fiercely. ~] I should like to — spank the small boy. 

Pow. Oh — certainly — ha — by all means. Ha, ha, I really 
thought you were about to commence with me. 

Rob. Pooh, you are in no danger. 

Pow. I wish you would let me tell you just how much danger 
I am in. Ah, will you, Roberta ? 

Rob. What is the use ? You know we don't agree about 
anything, and you wont even take a decided stand, and 
quarrel about it. You know I don't care anything about what 
people call love. Bah, it makes me sick. I want a career. 
I want to work for the emancipation of my sisters ; I want to 
strike at the chains of woman's slavery. I want to help women 
up— up, into the arms of 

Pow. [Eagerly.] Yes, yes, so do I, I want to help one 



bird's island. 27 

*oman up into the arms of— into my arms. [Takes her in his 
'Tins 1 

Roi>. Mr. Powers. You are too bold. [Ex. with a sweep- 
ne courtesy. ~\ 
Pow There it is again, « too bold." Now, how the deuce is 
fellow to know how to be just bold enough ? I consider that 
ather neat, you know, but she didn't seem to take it at all. 
Jut by Jove, what eyes. They are a full furnished battery ; 
nd'when she turns them on me, I feel a shower of bombs and 
l11 manner of combustibles and explosives thrown right into the 
:entre of my dazzled sense. At all events I must keep it up ; 
)erhaps Bobbinette would give me another lesson. [Ex. 
Enter Rayburn, groping his way and stumbling.} 

Ray I must give up trying to find my way about alone. 
3ut 1 have hated to be led by any other than my little Stella. 
\h God if this should be a hopeless experiment, I could not 
lear it. ' I wonder where all the chairs have hidden themselves ; 
knd who is it that says the devil is always in inanimate things ? 
Enter Madame Helga, who stops at c. door.] 
' Mme, Hel. [Softly ;\ Alfred. 

Ray, Who speaks ? 

Mme Hel. [With an effort at control.] You are alone, 
Mr Rayburn, shall I help you to a chair ? It is I, Madame 
Helga, your daughter's governess, you know. Sir, you are 
trembling. [He sits.] 

Ray. Ah, yes ; Madame Helga. Why is it your voice 
always startles me ? 

Mme. Hel. I am sorry sir if my voice disturbs you. 

Ray. It is a beautiful voice ; it is so like, and so unlike. 
[To himself.] It is strange, her voice had not the ring of sad- 
ness. You have known great sorrow, I am sure, madame ? 

Mme. Hel. Bitter sorrow. 

Ray. It is the common lot. It is a mockmg fate that pro- 
mises so much, and gives so little. _ 

Mme. Hel. But you, surely your worst grief is about to be 
dispelled ? When you shall have recovered your eyesight 

Ray Yes, yes, I should have nothing to regret then. Will 
you sit down with me, dear madame. My little girl loves you 
£0 dearly, that I am drawn toward you myself. Perhaps it is 
the common bond of grief. Tell me of yourself; believe me I 
do not ask through idle curiosity, but I wish to be your tnend. 

Mme Hel. I thank you. The friend who should be nearest 
and dearest,' owes me justice, rather than friendship. But I ac- 
cept your friendship and sympathy. 




28 bird's island. 

Ray. That is well, give me your hand on it. [Takes he? \ 
hand.] This hand is soft and small, yet there is strength in it | 
It seems the hand of a woman not old. I thought you saidyouifs 
hair was gray, madam ? 

Mme. Hel. It is gray, but not altogether with years. 

Ray. [Kissing her hand.] It is sad that a woman, a tendei 
woman should suffer. Have you lost your loved ones ? 

Mme. Hel. Yes. 

Ray. By — by death ? 

Mme. Hel. Alas, no ; through the demon of anger, haste 
and injustice. 

Ray. But may not all be well again ? 

Mme. Hel. If my husband abates one jot of his self love, sir, 
which has blinded him to the truth, and ruined his life and 
mine, perhaps I may hold my child in my arms and call hei 
mine before the world. [He grows agitated.] But I am wrong 
to agitate you with the recital of my grief ; forgive me. I know 
that the success of the operation on your eyes depends on your 
tranquility. 

Ray. Nay, it is only pity, believe me. [Enter Stella.] 

Stella. Dearest papa, I've been up to your rooms looking 
for you. Did you find your way alone. Why did you not call 
me ? I'm my papa's eyes now, Madam Helga ; and I've fin- 
ished my exercises too. 

Ray, What a diligent child. Is she a dreadful ignoramus, 
madam ? 

Mme. Hel. She is very bright, and will learn rapidly. 

Ray. I have taught her only in a desultory sort of way ; she 
knows nothing of text books. 

Mme. Hel. So much the better. 

Ray. [Rising.] Ah, you agree with me that oral teaching 
is best. Is it not time for our walk on the verandah, my child ? 

Stella. I am all ready. 

Ray. Will you go with us, madam ? 

Mme. Hel. Thank you, no ; I have other duties. 

Stella. Come then my big boy, my darling child, that I have 
to take such good care of — put this scarf about your neck ; here 
is your hat, now hold tight to my hand. [Ex. through C. 
door.] 

Mme. Hel. ]Looking after the?n. Enter BobMnette at L.] 
Ah, my starved" heart. My husband— my baby girl. 

Bobbi. Aha, what did I say ? Oh, that yellow cat, that yel- 
low cat. I beg pardon, madame 

Mme. Hel. Ah, it is you ? 






bird's island. 29 

Bobbi Yes, it is I. You appear to be interested, madame. 

Mme.HeL Oh, yes, in my pupil. [Aside.] Can it be that 
he suspects me ? 

Bobbi And in her pupil's father, is there any faith to be 
ut in dreams. Have you seen Miss Roberta ? I have a note 
jr her from Mr. Powers. 

Mme. Hel. I think she is in the library. 

Bobbi. [Seeming to wish to draw Madam Helga into con- 
versation.] Ah, there be a beautiful couple soon, when Miss 
Roberta gets tired playing fickle. 

Mme.HeL Love is a beautiful thing. 

Bobbi It is. [Aside.] The maneuvering wretch. [Aloud.] 
dreamed of scratching Miss Roberta's nose, last night with 

thistle. 

Mme. Hel. [Smiling.] Yes ? 

Bobbi. That means a kiss from a beard. 

Mme. Hel. That will be her father, perhaps. 

Bobbi Not a bit of it ; there's not a word in my dream 
jook about fathers. And look, I dreamed that master caught 
. fox with a red tail, and that is a sign he will never marry. 
Ex. spitefully :] 

Mme Hel. Bobbinette distrusts me, but does not recognize 
ne. If I could only trust her. [Ex. after Bobbinette. Play- 
neof bag-pipes outside, and enter Mrs. McKillop and Selwyn.] 

Sel. I have told you over and over, Mrs. Killop, that I must 
lot be excited. 

Mrs. McK. Now what is more soothin to the narves than 
lusic? Just tell me, Richard Selwyn, are ye tired of me in 
ns house ? 

1 Sel. No, but tired to death of your importunities, your 
- aelic song and that villainous boy you insist on having to play 
nat devilish instrument. For heaven's sake go out and send 
^im away. Here, [Goes to door,] if you don't take that thing 
iway, I'll come out and send for the police. [Voice outside, 

All right, sir."] When you know that my life depends on 
ay being kept from annoyance. If the rinderpest had broken 

ut among all the cats of Scotland, Mrs. McKillop, it couldn't 
>e worse ; but I draw the line at bag-pipes. 

Mrs. McK. Ah, weel, I'll send him away since ye've no 
nusic'nor poetry in yer sowl ; I only live to please you, 
Richard. [With a languishing look.] ; 

Sel. [ With some alarm.] Yes, yes, that's all right. I don t 
vant to be hard on you, but my nerves you know, my nerves. 
Mrs. McK All your imagination, why I have no nerves. 



30 bird's island. 

Sel. I can well believe it. 

Mrs. McK. All of my family, except your wife, my sister] 
Morna, were robust and strong. At eighty-nine, my grand- 
mother, Mrs. McKechnie, of Jilly-wheezle, had a cheek like ai 
apple. 

Sel. Hum, yes, apples. Apples always give me an infernal] 
indigestion. 

Mrs. McK. Now if ye were to marry again, Richard. 

Sel. Marry. Why great heaven, woman, I'm a physical) 
wreck. 

Mrs. McK. But if ye married some strong body, not tool { 
young and feckless. 

Sel, [Excitedly.'] Never, never, Mrs. McKillop, are you/ 
proposing to me ? Never I tell you. [Enter Stella.] 

Mrs. McK. What do ye mean, child, by intrudin' ? Ye^ 
were listenin' ye little sauvage. 

Stella. I would not be so mean ; you know I was not. 
Were you saying hateful things of me, that you think so ? 

Mrs. McK. I belave ye lie, ye little mousin' thing, ye. It' 
no more than might be expected of your mother's child. Oh. 
you needn't turn on me, Richard Selwyn, you that puts me like 
dirt under your foot and this sly child of a dissolute woman tqj 
come up and spy on me. 

Sel. Woman, be silent. 

Stella. I have learned "many things in a few months, 
never dreamed a woman could be so cruel and mean as I know) 
you to be ; ignorant, cowardly and untruthful. I should hate 
you if it were worth while. 

Mrs. McK. What, what, ye daur, ye daur 

Sel. Come, come ; let this stop. Stella, go away and forg<^_ 
what she has said. 

Stella. It is fitting that such a woman as you should traducev 
my beautiful dead mother. 

Mrs. McK. Beautiful ! Dead ! She's no more dead than t 
am, but livin' in eeniquity in some foreign town I've no doot. V 

Sel. Hold your tongue, you old Jezebel ; Stella, leave thef 
room, the room, the woman is insane. 

Mrs. McK. Woman, no more woman than you are yourself, 
Richard Selwyn. [To Stella.] If ye don't belave it, ask you 
father. [Ex.] 

Stella. Oh, Mr. Selwyn, I feel so strange. How could sh 
say it ! You don't look at me, Mr. Selwyn. What did sh 
mean ? I'll ask my father. 

Sel. No, no, child I forbid you. 






BIRD S ISLAND. 3 1 



Stella. You forbid me ? You are not my father, I will 
obey him. [Turns to leave, ,] 

Sel. Would you kill your father with excitement, or run the 
risk of exciting him so that the operation will be impossible ? 

StelL My poor father, my dear father. Oh, Mr. Selwyn, 
;there seemed to be truth, yet no, how could it be true ? Mr. 
'Selwyn, I am older than I look, tell me, relieve this dreadful 
suspicion ; tell what she meant. She said, my mother was 
living, not dead. And you looked so strange at her yourself, 
Oh, Mr. Selwyn, tell me. 

Sel. I could cheerfully hang that old harridan. Well then, 
Stella, since so much has been told you, since you have a sus- 
picion of the truth, it is as well to tell you the whole. Your 
mother, my child, is not really dead, but separated from your 
father. But do not, as you value your father's peace of mind, 
and his life, really, let him know that you have grown old 
enough. Come, child, don't get so white. 

Stella, My mother living. But not, not, wicked as she 
■said ? Say no, Mr. Selwyn. Oh, I know it is not true, but 
2ven if it were, my mother, my mother ! 

Sel. There, there child, how can I know ? I dare say she 
was good. Your father separated himself from her and took 
you away with him ; none of his friends ever knew the cause. 

Stella. Oh-h, how unhappy this world is ; God is very 
'cruel. 

Sel. My little girl, you are much too young to have known 
.his. Now don't take it too much to heart. You do not re- 
nember her, so she can be nothing more than a sentiment to 
r ou. Go and amuse yourself, and try to keep up your spirits 
f >r your lather's sake. I could murder that old catamaran. I 
jppose I shall pay for this with a relapse. Here is a book of 
lrawings, now do try to forget all about it. And be a happy 
rhild again. [Ex.] 

Stella. [Letting the book of drawings slip from her lap.] 
7 orget all about it, be a happy child again. Oh-h-h, I feel like 
in old, old woman must feel. " I do not remember her, so she 
:an be nothing but a sentiment to me." Nothing to me ? I've 
bought of my mother, dreamed of her every night since I can 
emember. Often at night, on Bird's Island, when the storm 
'ocked the house, and I was so afraid, for 1 was such a little 
'hing to have 710 mother, I have thought of her, and prayed to 
ny mother in heaven ; and now, Oh, I can't bear it, I can't bear 
ft. Mother-mother! [Throws herself sobbing on the floor.] 
filter Madame Helga.] 



32 BIRD S ISLAND. 

Mme. Hel. I thought I heard some one weeping. Whyl 
Stella, my child, my darling. Ah do not weep, my own, be\ 
comforted. But what is it ? 

Stella. Oh, it is nothing ; that is 

Mme. Hel. Ah the pity of it. The pity of grief for one so 
young ; my child will you not tell me, who loves you ? 

Stella. My heart is broken. 

Mme. Hel. Nay, nay, dear one, sorrow lies not so heavily 
on youth, believe me. 

Stella. But Oh I hate her, how I hate that horrid old woman. 
I should like to kill her. 

Mme. Hel. Ah, God, the passion ; how like the father. Try: 
try always my own, pray that you subdue the swift unreasoning 
temper. It is that which has ruined my life. 

Stella. I think I must tell you, you are good and kind, anc 
I cannot endure it alone. She said, Mrs. McKillop said, tha^ 
my mother whose very name I have worshipped, was, not dead 
but living, and a wicked woman. Oh Madame. 

Mme. Hel. [Springing to her feet. ~\ Tis false. Ah, pitying 
heaven what am I to do ? It is not true, loved one, believe he' 
not. Your mother was never wicked, never bad ; mistakei, 
perhaps, and not brave enough, but always true. Ah, Goa 
what am I saying ? 

Stella. [Clinging to her.'] But, Madame Helga, how ca n 
you know ? Can have known her ? 

Mme. Hel. Sit down child, I have alarmed you. [Sits nea;. 
Stella, and holds Stella's hands clasped to her breast.] Yoi 
love me, do not you ? 

Stella. Oh, yes, dear Madame. 

Mme. Hel. If I answer your question will you be content lQ 
wait, to know no more at present, but trust me until I am ab e 
to tell you that which shall change your life, perhaps make it 
happier ? 

Stella Yes, I think so ; there is no one to comfort me, bu t 
you. 

Mme. Hel. Dear one; then listen. I knew your mothe 1 
she was not the wicked woman they thought her. She neve r 
deceived your father intentionally, but foolishly and throug 1 
ignorance, and then in fear. In his terrible anger he woulj 
hear no explanations, but with many bitter words took you aw? y 
and left her alone. [ Weeps.] Your mother has suffered bitter] r 
but she lives, truly, and in good time you shall know he # 
When she is ready to lay before your father the proofs of he^ 
innocence 



BIRD S ISLAND. 33 

Stella. {Interrupting springs to her feet, and gazes into 
Mme. Helga's/^^. She snatches the locket from her breast 
and compares the pictured face with the face before her, then 
falls at her knees.] My mother, my mother ! Oh there is no 
need to wait, you are my mother ! I know, I know ! If my 
father were here ! Oh, I shall die with joy. 

Mme. Hel. But child, Stella, you do not know 

Stella. Do not deny yourselt to me, my mother, put your 
arms about me and say I am indeed your child, as I know I am. 

Mine. Hel. My love, my baby girl ! It is heaven's will. 
God has given you to me sooner even than I would. 

Stella. And to think I was so unhappy. Oh, I will never be 
sad again, I will even forgive Mrs. McKillop, for she never 
knew you. 

Mme. That is right, my darling. Do not harbor the black 
shadow of hatred in your" heart. Let us go some where to en- 
joy our love where we will not be disturbed. 

Stella. My darling mother. [They start out but are ar- 
rested by seeing Powers and Roberta enter, assisting Ray- 
burn.] 

Ray. You are very kind, my dear ; Every one makes me 
feel my old self again. [They seat him at L.] 

Roberta. And now dear Mr. Rayburn, promise us, that when 
you have once regained your sight, that you will never seclude 
yourself from your friends again. 

Stella. [ Coming across .] Dearest father, was not your heart 
always warmed with my love ? 

Pow. Excuse me — er — dear young lady. " Dearest father " 
is hardly correct form. That would imply that you had more 
than one father, eh ? 

Ray. And one poor old blind daddykins is enough ? [Car- 
esses her.] 

Roberta. We were looking for you Madame Helga, to beg 
you to give us some music. 

Ray. Let me add my entreaties also. 

Mme. Hel. I am very glad if I can please you. [Goes to 
piano at R.J 

Selection. 

Pow. Ah, that was rather sad, you know. Could'nt you 
play us something brighter, Madame ? She plays the Spanish 
dance, the air that affected Ray. in Act 1.] 

Ray. [Starting up wildly.] No, no, not that. That mad- 
dening air is burned into my very brain. Every chord and 
2 



34 bird's island. 

measure stirs the gall and bitterness of my soul, and I curse 
again the woman whose falseness makes it a hateful memory. 
I live again the misery of the past 

Stella. My — father — no, no. 

Ray. My daughter. Friends, forgive me. Madame Helga, 
forgive a man, old before his time, shattered and broken by 
illness and sorrow, and blind, Madame Helga, remember that, 
I beg of you to play what you will — the melody you have begun, 
I insist in it. I am better now. [Ray near the piano. Madame 
Helga plays Spanish dance softly. Stella kneels at her 
father's side looking at him, his head sunk on his breast as if 
in reverie. Roberta and Powers at opposite side of stage. 
They look at each other, Roberta gives him her hand, which 
he kisses. An effective second curtain discloses Rayburn 
alone on the stage as in reverie, while at the back, as in a 
picture, a Spanish dancer dances to the air played softly by 
the orchestra^ 

CURTAIN. 



ACT IV. 

[Scene : — Interior at Bird's Islaud.] 

Mrs. McKillop. There is some mystery in the house. Ever 
since we came to Bird's Island, because Alfred Raymond was 
determined to look for the first time on his island home, there 
has been such a whispering and sly slippin' aboot. And the 
little sauvage is as sweet as honey to me, an' bears me no ill 
will for me unfortunate burst of temper. Ah, the McFecknees 
ever had the hot blood. It leps along me veins as did 
McOuhannal's of old. Even Raymond is kind and gracious to 
me, though he must know of the disclosure I made. Perhaps 
he means — Lawk, who knows ? He, he, I'd be a stepmother 
to the little sauvage. I shall keep my eyes open, I'm not to be 
kept in the dark alone ; the curiosity of me sex must be satis- 
fied. [Ex. Enter Richard Selwyn.] 

SeL This climate is paradise itself. I have scarcelv thought 
of my heart since we came. And now, if our double experi- 
ment is only successful, the experiment on his eyes, and the one 



BIRD S ISLAND. 35 

on his heart. To-day the bandages are to be removed, and if 
all goes well he will see once more. Then we will bring about 
the reconciliation with his wife, who is an angel ; yes, an angel, 
even I must admit that, though I still contend that angels are 
not frequent. But the evidence in favor of her innocence and 
purity is undeniable, Rayburn must see it. Besides, he is 
already as dependent on her as if he knew her to be his wife. 
Ha, ha, I feel something of the same delight that a matchmaker 
must feel, in bringing these two together. Well, it is a new 
sensation at all events to forget myself. [Enter Roberta with 
downcast head and lagging step.] Oh, Roberta, is there any- 
thing the matter ? 

Rob. No, papa. 

Sel. But you look tired. 

Rob. We have been walking over the island, and fishing on 
the coast. 

Sel. We ? 

Rob. Mr. Powers and I. 

Sel. Oh, oh ; and that is why you are tired ? Didn't Powers 
help you over the cliffs and stones ? 

Rob. Oh, yes ; he carried the basket — and rod. 

Sel. Was that all ? 

Rob. Well, you see papa, there was nothing else to carry 
except me, and I suppose that didn't occur to him. 

Sel. What do you mean by hiding your face in this way ? 
Look at me Roberta. Let me see your tongue. Clean, all 
clean. Your pulse then. [Feels her pulse.'] Too quick, too 
quick ; I must have Smith write you a prescription. Come into 
the library with me till I give you a dose of calomel. 

Rob. I — don't think I need calomel, papa. [Hangs her 
head.] 

Sel. Eh ? What's this ? You're not in love, Roberta ? 

Rob- [Indignantly,] Of course not, papa. 

Sel. Dear, dear, I never would have believed it of you, 
Roberta. 

Rob. You know that I think there is nothing so ridiculous, 
so vulgar, as falling in love. But, [sadly] one has human 
sympathies — and I feel sorry for him. 

Sel. I understand, you are going to take him to get rid of 
him ? 

Rob. Oh no, indeed ; if it — were — not for the sound of his 
voice, papa, and his eyes, and — oh, papa. [Hides her face on 
his shoulder.] 

Sel. My dear daughter S There, mind my left lung. God 



36 bird's island. 

bless you my dear. But it is a risk. Lord what a risk. [Enter- 
Powers.] Well, sir, I suppose you come to ask my consent ? 

Rob. Oh, no, no, indeed,, papa ; he has not — oh indeed you. 
are mistaken. 

Pow. Eh ? Er — consent. 

Sel. Why God bless my soul, man, don't you want to marry 
my daughter ? 

Rob. Oh, papa, how can you ? You were entirely mistaken.. 
I never said that this is — Mr. Powers has not — oh, what have 
you done ? {Starts to run.] 

Pow. [Intercepting her, and taking her hand.'] Ah — don't 
go yet ; that is, I hope you won't go, A — let your father decide 
for us. 

Rob. There is nothing to decide. Let me go — please let: 
me go. 

Pow. Beg pardon — just one minute you know ; there is, 
something to decide. 

Sel. Why, what is all this about. 

Rob. Nothing at all papa ; please let me go. 

Pow. Er — won't you wait one moment, please ? Mr*. 
Selwyn, don't you think Roberta ought to marry me ? 

Rob. Absurd ; how should papa know ? 

Sel. This is a singular courtship, upon my word. Do you 
love my daughter, sir ? 

Pow. [Quickly.] Oh, yes, yes; [to Roberta] you know! 
do. 

Sel. And Roberta, do you love him ? 

Rob* {Impatiently. ,] How can I tell ? You ought to know,, 
papa. 

Sel. Oh, well, if you leave it to me, I pronounce it a case. 
[Spreads hands over them in mockery.] Bless you my children. 
And now, you'll excuse me from staying to witness the spoon- 
ing. Lord. [Aside.] Roberta spooning must be a sight for 
the gods to weep at. Besides, like Solomon, I'm sick of 
love. [Ex. Powers and Roberta remain standing, holding 
each other's hands j they burst out laughing.] 

Rob. An excellent joke. Ha, ha. 

Pow. Capital. But — we're engaged, you know ? 

Rob. Oh, I suppose so. 

Pow. And you're in love with me, too ; your father says so ? 

Rob. Yes, papa says so. 

Pow. Oh, Roberta. 

Rob. Oh, Arthur. 

Pow. Who would have supposed she wanted it done in this 



BIRD S ISLAND. 37 

way ? A — Roberta, does your heart beat like ten thousand 
trip hammers ? 

Rob. Yes, Arthur ; and I hear something like electric bells 
ringing in my ears. 

Pow. Then your father was right, it is a case. Ah — love is 
a very peculiar thing, don't you think ? Now, do you know, 
when you look at me like that with your lovely eyes, I feel as if 
the ground was swept from under my feet, and I stood on rosy 
clouds of bliss. 

Rob. It is a rather interesting experiment. I never supposed 
there was so much science in it. 

Pow. Oh, Roberta. 

Rob. Oh, Arthur. But must I give up all my hopes of — of 
— reform and — everything ? 

Pow. Certainly not ; only — er — limit your field of work to — 
to — well, say to me. [Larry and Bobbinette cross at back of 
stage.'] There are another pair of lovers ; let us go out on the 
beach before they see us. 

Rob= Oh, yes, I'm ashamed of it too. 

Pow. Eh, what ? Do you think I am ashamed of it ? I'd 
put my arm about you like this, [Bus] and kiss you like this, 
and this, before the whole world. 

Rob. Oh, would you, really ? Why, Arthur, I never 
dreamed you had so much decision. \Ex. Bobbinette and 
Larry come on.] 

Bobbi. This is the great day, Mr. Larry, which shall deter- 
mine whether our master shall ever see again. I dreamed 
three times last night of an eagle flying against the w r ind ; but 
there is not one word in my book about eagles. I am all im- 
patience till the bandages are removed. After ten days the 
good doctor said. Was it not like master to bring us all back 
to the Island ? He wanted to look first on his dear home, he 
said. 

Larry. ' Dear home,' indade thin, I tell ye flat, mistress 
Bobbinette if ye kape praisin' this lonesome place, ye'll disgust 
me, that's what ye will. An' if ye can't lave it wid a better 
grace, we can never make a match of it. This buryin' ground 
is no place for a fine young man like mesilf ; no Broadway, no 
thayatres, no nothing. 

Bobbi. Young man, hum'ph, master impudence. 

Larry. But I dare say nayther of us will regret it; ye will 
always have the remimbrance of the chances you have had. 
As for me — 

Bobbi. As for you ? . 



3& bird's island. 

Larry. Oh, I can amuse myself, disportin' down the streets, 
and schmilin' at all the pretty girls that wink at me. 

Bobbi. I am sure its nothing to me how the pretty girls 
wink. If they knew the perfidy of men — as I do, they would 
wink — never. 

Larry. Oh, thin, let us drop the subject by all manes. Good 
morning, mistress Bobbinette. [Ex.'] 

Bobbi. But what ? He's gone. There is nothing like this 
in my dream book. Men are deceitful ever. Ah me, I am 
much troubled. With this Larry so — so indifferent, and this 
woman, this Madame Helga, so quiet, so evidently determine 
to marry my master. What then ? She already winds him 
around her finger— so. He calls never for Bobbinette ; but 
always for "Madame Helga." Even all the others she have 
bewitch. Mr. Selwyn thinks no more of his liver, his lights, 
his heart, or his insides any where, but he too is charmed to 
wait on " Madame Helga" [Enter Madame Helga.] 

Mme. Hel. Were you talking to yourself, Bobbinette. 

Bobbi. Perhaps, when one is distracted with trouble and 
annoyance, one does not know. 

Mme. Hel. Poor Bobbinette, have you troubles too ? 

Bobbi. But yes ; what then ? 1 can be nothing to Madame 
Helga. She is become the favorite of every one. She is so — 
so — what shall I say ? She lead every one by the nose. 

Mme. Hel. That was spitefully said. Tell me, Bobbinette, 
why of all in this house will you be the only one who hates me ? 
Why should you hate one who does you only kindness ? 

Bobbi. I am not so sure of that. [Turning swiftly on 
Madame Helga.] It is this, madame, though it ill becomes 
me to speak so bold. You are trying to win my master's 
heart. 

Mme. Hel. And what then ? 

Bobbi. Eh ? What then ? She owns it. 

Mme. Hel. It is true I possess Mr. Rayburn's confidence, 
and Stella's love, are you jealous of that ? 

Bobbi. Nothing but unhappiness can come of it. Can you 
keep a secret ? Master already has a living wife. What, 
that does not move you? 

Mme. Hel. Did you know her ? 

Bobbi. Know her ? Ah, mon dieu, but yes. The sweetest 
lady that ever smiled, Some cruel mistake it must have been 
that parted them, for master loved her dearly. 

Mme. Hel. You are faithful to her memory, Bobbinette ? 

Ppbbi. But yes, and shall be always, 



bird's island. 39 

Mme. Hel. Would you know her now, think you, Bob- 
binette ? It is a long time since you saw her ? 

Bobbi. But I should know her. 

Mme. Hel. And would you help restore her to her husband's 
love ? 

Bobbi. Ah, surely. 

Mme. Hel. Time and tears will have changed her, Bob- 
binette. 

Bobbi. But not to my eyes ; I should know her among a 
thousand. 

Mme. Hel. {Tearing off her glasses, ,] Bobbinette. 

Bobbi. But what ? What trickery is this ? My mistress, 
my loved and honored mistress! [Falls at Madame Helga's 
feet and kisses her hands and dress.] Oh, the dear hand, 
thin with grief, and oh, the grey hair. Sorrow, sorrow. What 
must you have suffered, my dear, dear mistress. 

Mme. Hel. My faithful Bobbinette. I should have known 
that I might trust you ; [kisses her cheek] but I was afraid. 
You will keep my secret yet a little while longer ? 

Bobbi. Do you doubt me ? How blind I have been, my 
sweet mistress. And you — and master — you will be happy 
again ? 

Mme. Hel. I hope for that. Sh — here he comes. [Enter 
Ray and Stella.] 

Ray. Do not be too hopeful my darling, if it should prove 
not successful. 

Stella. But it will, it will; I'm sure of that. God will 
answer our prayers. Oh, here is my — Madame Helga and Bob- 
binette. 

Ray. I knew you must be somewhere near, madame, I 
think I must feel your presence. I seem to be unusually sensi- 
tive to-day. And you, my good Bobbinette, have I your prayers 
too ? Surely all must go well. 

Bobbi. Oh, master, master. [Madame Helga holds itp a 
hand warningly.] 

Ray. Come, no tears to-day, unless joyful ones. Sit near 
me, Madame Helga. On this day, when every one seems full 
of a suppressed excitement, strange to say, I feel a curious 
calm. It is as though my spirit, so long tossed about by the 
storm of despair, would never know unrest again. [During 
this time Stella and Bobbinette, have in pantomime shown a 
knowledge of the secret. They embrace and presently slip out 
leaving Madame Helga and Raymond alone. 

Mme. Hel. Heaven grant that it may be so. 



40 bird's island. 

Ray. Amen. 

Mme. Hel. Every soul believes it's own shadows the dark- 
est. 

Ray. Ah, true. I had forgotten your shadow, your sorrow ; 
hope and happiness have made me selfish. Why not tell me of 
yourself now, dear madame ? You say your husband is still 
living ? 

Mme. Hel. Yes. 

Ray. \With a sigh.~\ And you love him still ? 

Mme. Hel. I love and honor him above all men, and ever 
have. 

Ray. Then why 

Mme. Hel. Not to-day, dear Mr. Rayburn ; my story is too 
stormy, and you must be kept quiet, must be calm to-day. 

Ray. But somehow I feel to insist. Tell me of yourself — 
now. Have I not deserved your confidence ? 

Mme. Hel. You have. [After a pause.] It was a cruel 
mistake parted us. Listen. I was an opera singer and dancer, 
poor and humble, when my husband met me and took me out 
of a life that was most distasteful, and made me his loved wife. 
We were not acquainted long before our marriage, and he sup- 
posed I had no family. I was ashamed to tell him of my only 
brother, who had been committed to prison for some youthful 
folly. He was never bad, but weak, and his wild associates 
led him astray. He made his escape, and came to me, and 
threw himself at my feet, begged me to protect him. 'Twas 
there my husband found him, and went into one of those dread- 
ful rages that always frightened me dumb. He was beside 
himself with passion, and I was beside myself with terror. I 
could not speak. He cursed me in wild rage, and took our 
child and went away. Ah, I cannot speak of that day. I was 
so young, so ignorant ; I dared not ask after him ; I was never 
brave. So my brother and I went and hid ourselves in Paris 
for awhile, and then to the little village where we were born ; 
and I sewed and taught music, and kept us until my brother died. 

Ray. And you never sought out your husband to tell him of 
his cruel blunder ? Why this is incredible ; any man in his 
senses would have listened. 

Mme. Hel. True, but he was not in his senses. He was 
raving. And I was so ignorant and afraid. 

Ray. But good heavens, this must be righted. 

Mme. Hel. [Laying her hand on his arm.] Do not agitate 
yourself on my account. Some day he will let me atone. 

Ray. Let you atone ? Why he must be a monster of in- 



bird's island. 41 

Credulity to doubt you. What atonement does he not owe you ? 
[Sinks into a reverie ; gradually a suspicion dawns on him.] 
God ! How like ! What if there should have been a doubt ? 
[A glimmer of the truth comes to him.] Let me hold your 
hands in mine a moment, Madame Helga. They tremble. 

Mme. Hel. With emotion at your sympathy. Pray sit 
down, Mr. Rayburn, remember you promised me I should not 
excite you. Think, the doctor will be here very soon now. I 
will never forgive myself. Do sit down. 

Ray. [Firmly.] There is a ring in your voice, that I heard 
when I first met you. You have striven to conceal it since. 

MlXlS. Hel. Oh, no, no. [ Aside.] What can I say ? 

Riy. Say, say if indeed you are Bertha. Say if you are in 
truth my wronged and suffering wife. 1 WILL SEE. [Tears off 
the bandage. Maiame Helga shrieks, and all come on the 
stage, j It is my wife. God forgive me. [Faints j they lay 
him on couch.] 

Mme. Hel. Alfred, husband, speak to me. [To Selwyn.J 
Oh, say I have not killed him. 

Sel. I think not. There, he's coming out all right. Ray- 
burn, old fellow, how do you find yourself? 

Ray. I see ! I see ! Oh, the blessed light that showed me 
my wife's face — her dear face. Where is she ? [Madame 
Helga kneels at his side.] This dear, true face. God's own 
light on the face that ever looked truth back again. Blind ? 
Aye, I was blind then when I doubted you. The brief darkness 
I have known since, was nothing to my wilful blindness. Not 
at my feet, dear one, to my heart, to my heart. [Rising.] 

Stella. Oh, I shall die of happiness. 

Ray. My little girl, do you see your mother ? 

Stalla. Oh, I have known her all along. 

Ray. Ah, yes, only I have been blind. 

Sel. We have all been in the conspiracy, Rayburn. 

Ray, Let me look at you, dear friend. If happiness could 
kill — My wife. I can never restore these gray hairs, but I can 
reverence and worship them. [Kisses her hair.] And atone 
by my devotion for every day and hour. 

Mme. Hel. I think our little Stella was keener of sight than 
anyone. 

Stella. Why of course, any girl would know her ownest — 
mother. My father and mother, what a happy girl I am. Is it 
not a beautiful world, Roberta ? 

Ray. [With uplifted head.] A beautiful happy world, my 
wife, where God's sunlight drives away every shadow. 



42 bird's island. 

Stella. [Kissing Mrs. McKillop.] And ought not every- 
body love everybody. 

Rob. and Pow. [At L. 2 E.] So they ought. 

Larry and Bobbinette. [At r. 2 e.] So they ought. 
[Selwyn andMYS. McKillop at back; they look at each other, 
Selwyn turns away his head. Rayburn and Madame Helga 
at Q. while Stella dances softly in front of them. Music of a 
Spanish dance. 

CURTAIN. 



THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY'S CATALOGUE 
NEW PLAYS, 1897-98. 

The First Kiss. 

Comedy in One Act, 

BY 

MAURICE HAGEMAN, 

Author *« By Telephone," " A Crazy Idea," Etc. 
One male, one female characters. Plays twenty minutes. 
Scene, a handsomely furnished room. Costumes, afternoon 
dress of to-day. This sketch presents an entirely new plot, 
with novel situations and business. The fun is continuous 
and the dialogue bright and refined. Price, 15 cents. 



Bird's Island. 



Drama in Four Acts, 

BY 

MRS. SALLIE F. TOLER. 

Author of "Handicapped," Etc. 
Five male (may be played with four), four female char- 
acters. One exterior, two interior scenes. Costumes, summer 
costumes of to-day. Plays two and one-half hours. This is 
one of the strongest dramas since "East Lynne." Thrilling 
situations abound and the comedy element is equally strong. 
The drama is strong in character parts, the plot including a 
blind man, an Englishman, who is not slow in every sense of 
the word, an Irishman, a Scotchwoman, a Creole maid and a 
charming soubrette, all of whom are star parts. The profes- 
sional stage will find this a drawing and paying play— but 
amateurs can easily produce it. Price, 25 cents. 



Hector. 



Farce in One Act, 
MAURICE HAGEMAN. 

Atlthor of "First Kiss," "A Crazy Idea," Etc. 
Six male, two female characters. Plays forty-five minutes. 
Costumes, one messenger boy's, man and woman servants, a 
dudish young man, a flashy Hebrew, and lady and gentle- 
man's street dress. Scene, a well furnished reception room. 
This farce has been a great success among professionals. 
The situations are so funny they can not be spoiled by the 
most inexperienced actors. The dialogue keeps up a constant 
hurrah in the audience. Hector, the dog, forms the central 
idea of the plot of the play, but need not be seen at any 
time unless a suitable animal is at hand. Price, 15 cents. 



THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY'S CATALOGUE 
NEW PLAYS, 1891-98. 

Diamonds and Hearts, 

Comedy Drama in Three Acts, 

BY 

EFFIE W. MERRIMAN. 

Author of "Socials," "Pair of Artists," " Maud Mailer," Etc., Etc. 

Four male, five female characters. Plays two hours. Cos- 
tumes of to-day for house and. street. Three interior scenes. 
EJach character in this play is original and life-like. The 
three pretty young ladies have each a marked individuality, 
as have also the young doctor and young villain. The bach- 
elor farmer has no rival unless we except the leading roles in 
" Denman Thompson," and " Shore Acres." He is a homespun 
lovable man and the scene in his home with his equally at- 
tractive sister is one of the strongest in the play. The drama 
is full of comedy, pathos and country life* of the most whole- 
some nature. The story possesses an intense dramatic inter- 
est. Price, 25 cents. 



An American Harem, 

Comedietta in One Act, 

Two male, five female characters. Plays twenty minutes. 
Costumes are ordinary street dress, except travelling suit for 
one man and very elaborate house dress for the servant. 
Scene, a handsomely furnished parlor. Frank's young wife 
suddenly disappears from home in a fit of temper, at the same 
time that his old college chum as suddenly appears to pay him 
a visit. His Irish servant, his mother, his sister and his 
cousin, with the best intentions of helping him out of the 
scrape, present themselves as his wife and the fun that ensues 
is immense. The comic situations arising from these com- 
plications are unlimited and the way in which the bright and 
sparkling dialogue works them out, keeps the audience con- 
vulsed from first to last. It is a play which furnishes oppor- 
tunity for the highest class of acting, but at the same time if 
the players simply walk through it, it will make a hit every 
time. 

It is easily staged as no scenery is required and the cos- 
tuming and properties are always at hand. Price, 1* cents. 



THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY'S CATAlOfiUl 

NEW PLAYS, 1891-98. 

A Modern Proposal, 

Duologue in One Act, 

BY 

MARSDEN BROWN, 

Author of, "A Bold Stratagem," "A Passing Cloud," Etc. 

One male, one female characters. A drawing-room scene. 
Costumes should be ordinary evening- dress. Plays fifteen 
minutes. The best performers will welcome this two part 
comedy with the greatest cordiality. It is entirely new and 
very novel in situation and dialogue. All [the changes seemed 
to have been rung upon a " proposal " scene for a young man 
and woman but Mr. Brown surprises us with an entirely new 
one. The dialogue is the most refined comedy, under which is 
shown at times strong feeling. Price, 15 cents. 



A Crazy Idea, 

Comedy in Four Acts, 

BY 

MAURICE HAGEMAN, 

Ten male, eight female characters. Costumes of to-day. 
One inteiior scene. Plays two and one-half hours. A jealous 
husband suddenly decides to put his house in the care of his 
nephew and take his wife and daughter to travel because he is 
possessed of the idea that his wife has a lover. The 
nephew is impecunious and a young colored friend persuades 
him to rent the house to roomers and take him for a servant. 
The fun then begins. Each lodger is a strong character part 
and they get themselves and their landlord and his servant into 
most amusing scrapes. However all ends well. 

The one scene required makes it a play easily produced on 
any stage where there are sufficient exits. The dialogue is 
very strong and keeps every audience in roars of laughter 
from beginning to end. There is no better comedy written 
than " A Crazy Idea." Price, 25 cents* 



THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY'S CATALOGUE 
NEW PLAYS, 1897-98. 

AH Due to the Management* 

A Monologue for a Gentleman, 

BY 

HELEN M. LOCKE. 

Author of " A Victim of Woman's Rights," Etc. 
Plays fifteen minutes. Scene, a comfortable sitting-room 
with a writing table. Costume, first overcoat and hat, which 
when removed discloses a plain sack suit. A gentleman is 
left at home by his wife to keep house while she is in the 
country resting. He attempts to write a magazine article 
while attending to his household duties. The result is a 
wrecking of his self complacency, his work as an author and 
the tidiness of the house. He finally leaves to recuperate 
with his wife in the country. It is an A 1 monologue. Price, 
15 cents. 



A Pair of Lunatics, 

A Dramatic Sketch in One Act, 

BY 

W. R. WALKES. 

Author of "Villain and Victim," "Rain Clouds," Etc., Etc. 
One male, one female characters. Plays fifteen minutes. 
Scene, a back parlor. Ordinary evening dress. This is among 
the most successful two-part sketches used at present. It is 
full of action and bright dialogue. The two characters mis- 
take one another for lunatics and the fun that ensues is im- 
mense. This edition is well printed. Price, 15 cents* 



A Passing Cloud. 

A Monologue tor a Lady. 

BY 

MARSDEN BROWN, 

Author "Bold Stratagem," "A Modern Proposal," Etc. 
Plays fifteen minutes. Handsome dinner costume and 
any pretty room. A handsome young woman is dressed for a 
dinner at her mother's house, and is waiting for her husband 
to return from business to accompany her. He is detained 
far beyond the time at which she expects him to arrive and 
she passes through a succession of emotions in consequence. 
This monologue can be presented before the most critical 
audiences with entire success. Price, 15 cents. 



THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY'S CATAIOOOE 

NEW PLAYS, 1897-98. 

Conrad, 

OR, 

The Hand of a Friend. 

Drama in Three Acts, 

BY 

FRANK DUMONT. 

Anthof of " Undertaker's Daughter," " Too Little Vagrants," Etc. 

Ten male, two female and one child characters. Plays 
two and one-half hours. Two exterior, one interior of hut 
scenes. Costumes modern and wild-western. This western 
drama is full of startling situations and thrilling- incidents. 
It has been a most successful professional drama and pleases 
everybody and can be produced on a large or small stage. 
The book of the play gives the most minute stage directions, 
which have all been tried for several seasons on the regular 
professional stage. Repertoire companies will find this play a 
11 winner," while amateurs will find it entirely free from any- 
thing objectionable in dialogue and a play that is easily pro- 
duced. Conrad is a German character part which in the hands 
of a competent man may be made a star part, for he is given 
opportunity for much strong acting. However, there are six 
other strong characters. The Irish Servant and leading woman 
are good, and the Jew and the escaped convict, the half 
starved comedian are all excellent. Price, 25 cents. 



By Telephone. 



Sketch in One Acts, 

BY 

MAURICE HAGEMAN. 

One male, one female characters. Plays twenty minutes. 
Scene, a handsome room. Costumes of to-day, the gentleman 
any suit except evening dress; the lady, any elegant costume. 
This strong little comedy sketch is full of action and new 
business, full directions for which are given in the book of 
the play. The dialogue is refined and brilliant and will please 
all audiences. A wealthy young society man is introduced to 
the notice of a young woman with an income also, as a poor 
photographer. A mutual interest is developed and the scene 
played is when the young woman comes to his improvised 
studio to sit for her picture for which arrangements have been 
"by telephone." The situation it will be seen is new and 
novel and the dialogue is the most refined comedy. There is 
HP finer twenty minute sketch for two people. Price, 15 cents, 



THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY' S CAT A LOGUE 

u ■ " " « 

i897— 1898. 

New Ethiopian Dramas. 

Price, 15 cents each. 

The following plays are all by the well known minstrel man Frank Dnmont. 
Each one has been successful on the professional stage but now for the first 
time is presented in printed form. Full and minute stage directions accom- 
pany each book of the play, and Mr. Dumont has made them very complete in 
every respect. Several of these plays may be played white face. 

Cake Walk. Farce in one scene by Frank Dumont. 
Fourteen characters, half of them in female dress. Plays 
fifteen minutes. The Cake Walk is one of the most character- 
istic darkey entertainments and this farce presents all of its 
ludicrous situations. The plain interior scene can be easily 
arranged and the properties are as simple. The "cake," "the 
bad coon," and the fat wench's antics are all side- splittingly 
funny. 

False Colors. A black sketch in two scenes by Frank 
Dumont. Three male characters. Plays twenty minutes. A 
street and an interior scenes. One character appears in mili- 
tary dress with pistols and sword in belt, the remaining two 
characters are typical tramps at first and then disguise them- 
selves in outlandish military uniforms. The fun is slow and 
dry but bursts into uproarious burlesque at the end. 

HOW to Get a Divorce. Farce in one act by Frank 
Dumont. Eight male, three female characters, beside " a jury 
and other bits of judicial brie a brae." Plays fifteen minutes. 
This is a farce which is very funny played with white faces 
although originally written^ for minstrels. The scene is a 
court room and Judge Alimony separates three happy couples, 
before Mrs. Alimony breaks up the court proceedings. 

Jack Sheppard and Joe Blueskin, or Amateur 
Road Agents. Melodramatic burlesque in one act, by 
Frank Dumont. Six characters. Plays twenty minutes, 
landscape scene. This is done for minstrels. The two des- 
peradoes, Jack and Joe are very funny and the piece acted 
with spirit is a sure hit. The dialogue gives opportunity for 
any amount of business and is full of genuine darkey humor. 



THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY'S CATALOGUE 
NEW ETHIOPIAN DRAMAS.— Continued. 



The Lady Barber. Sketch in one scene by Frank Du- 
mont. Four characters, two of them appear in female dress. 
Plays twenty minutes. Scene — a barber shop. This is one of 
Mr. Dumont's strongest plays. The fun begins immediately 
when the proprietor induces the white-wash man to assume 
the dress of a lady and take charge of the customers and in- 
creases until the shop is cleared out in a fast and furiously 
funny manner. 

Other People's Troubles. An eccentricity in one 
scene by Frank Dumont. Three male, two female characters. 
Interior scene. Plays fifteen minutes. This sketch may be 
played white or black face and has been successful on the pro- 
fessional stage, Iyew Dockstader making a fine Zack. The 
play is a "screamer," full of smart sayings and funny situa- 
tions. The end is a rattling climax of merriment. 

The Serenade Party; or, The Miser's Troubles. 

A black sketch in one act, by Frank Dumont. Four characters, 
one in female dress. Plays twenty minutes. Interior scene. 
A popular professional sketch. The miser and his servant's 
efforts to deceive one another and their guests are uproariously 
funny. Here is great opportunity for fine business and full 
directions are given by the author in every book of the play. 

Too Little Vagrants; or, Beware of Tramps. 

Farce in one act by Frank Dumont. Three male, one female 
characters. Plays twenty minutes. One exterior scene. May 
be produced white or black face. This play introduces two 
of the most comical of tramp characters. The position of one 
of them forced to stand as a scare crow is very funny. There 
is nothing offensive in the bright and rapid dialogue. 

The Undertaker's Daughter. Farce in one act, by 
Frank Dumont. Three male, one female characters. Plays 
twenty-five minutes. Plain chamber scene. This play may 
be given white or black face, and has been successful each 
way on the professional stage. The motive, dialogue and 
action all very original, bring screams of laughter from all 
audiences. Full stage directions accompany the book of the 
play. 



THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY'S CATALOGUE 

NEW PLAYS, 1897-98. 

Our 5tarry Banner, 

Original Patriotic Drama in Five Acts, 

BY 

J. A. FRASER, JR., 

Author of "A Noble Outcast," "Modern Ananias," "Merry Cobbler," Etc. 

Fifteen male, four female characters. Plays an entire 
evening-. Costumes military and of the time of 1864. Three 
exterior, one interior scenes. By judicious doubling- this 
piece can be played by eleven male and four female characters. 
The plot of this play is a romantic and absorbing story of the 
civil war. It is full of patriotism and the spirit of 1864, but 
there is nothing cheap or tawdry in either sentiment or plot, 
The author says: " The parts are all excellent and the leads 
are all on an absolute equality, Madge, Paul, Blackleigh, 
Dooley, the Squire, Judy, Millie and Will leaving little choice. 
Military organizations and Grand Army Posts will find this 
play exactly what they want, and Womans Relief Corps will 
see in Madge the only stage heroine who does justice to the 
noble part played by our women during these four years of 
untold anguish." 

The piece affords a wealth of spectacular effect, at little 
or no expense. A military company is required and a brass 
band or fife and drum corps will add much to the effectiveness 
of Acts I and II. Price, 25 cents. 



Joe, 



Comedy of Child Life In Two Acts, 

BY 

CHARLES BARNARD, 

Author of " County Fair," Etc. 

Three male, eight female characters. Plays forty-five 
minutes. One interior and one exterior scenes. Costumes of 
to-day. This charming comedy introduces two mothers and 
nine children, from six to fourteen years of age. Micky 
Flynn, the bad boy and Joe, " the girl who likes boys," are 
great fun and every audience loves little Pussie and Dolly. 
The play depicts healthy every-day child life with exquisite 
touches. It is adapted to performance on a regular stage of a 
theatre or on a platform with or without scenery. The 
author's idea has been to make a play of real child life with 
child art and at the child's point of view. It may be played 
by adults representing children, but is better by real children 
Price, 25 cents. 




017 401 499 1 



PLAYS. 



DEING the largest theatrical booksellers in 
*-* the United States, we- keep in stock the most 
complete and best assorted lines of plays and 
entertainment books to be fonnd in this country . 

We can supply any play or book pub- 
lished. We have issued a 120-page catalogue 
of the best 1500 plays and entertainment books 
published in the U. S. and England. It con- 
tains a full description of each play, giving 
number of characters, time of playing, scenery, 
costumes, etc. This catalogue will be sent free 
on application. 

The plays described are suitable for am- 
ateurs and professionals, and nearly all of them 
may be performed free of royalty. Persons in- 
terested in dramatic books should examine our 
catalogue before ordering elsewhere. 

The Dramatic Publishing Company, 

CHICAGO. 



